Because Something Had to Happen
by Red Molly
Summary: A/U.  A wild idea and the oddest pairing on God's green dirtball.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am going to pretend that this evening didn't happen. Because this has been cooking for a long long time and I gotta do something with it. After many a long discussion with ThisLife103.7 (who posited this in the first place idea), this has come about. It's gonna be AU, now that they've offed my lantern-jawed friend, but I guess that frees me up to do whatever I care to. Thoughts?

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Rachel's eyes were black as the shadows.

His were pale as the light from the dead flashlight.

The air was warm.

"You know what that means," he said softly. There was a huff from across the way.

"You just don't strike me as somebody who knows about it."

"Lack of oxygen?" She was sour. Her words were short.

"The mines," he grunted.

"The only reason I didn't 'strike you' was because the roof caved in and did it FOR ME." That was what she _wanted_ to say.

Instead, she got up and walked across to where he was sitting, feeling her way. Black. Black black black as the coal pulled from this place years ago. And neither one of them looking at anything other than survival right now. She found a booted foot and then found a place next to his thigh, putting the wall up against her back. Miner here would know a thing or two about air, and it would be easier on both of them if, when they were dug out, they were sitting close together.

He thumped his thick skull against the stone behind him. He sniffed, and it was kind of thick sounding from the blood leaking out his nose.

She shed her jacket and he heard the rattle of the sidearm.

He took in a breath and almost spoke.

"What?" she asked.

"Never mind."

"I'm not going anywhere….Devil….."

"It'll waste air." Which wasn't exactly true, because they'd been close enough to that air shaft that they probably had eight or nine hours of oxygen to burn off before they needed to be worried. It was just going to be hot.

"Not as close as we were to the air shaft."

Of course she'd seen it. Of course.

She persisted. "What were you going to say?"

"You shouldn't'a chased me."

"I shouldn't have CHASED you? You shouldn't have RUN!"

He could taste the irritation coming off of her with the sweat. He'd been scared. How do you explain that to the only black…..oh dear lord. He already felt like he'd put his foot in it and he hadn't even said anything. And there wasn't much hope in explaining that she was the only woman, black, white, lemon-lime or otherwise, that had ever struck fear in his heart with a weapon in her hand. And of course that lead to thinkin' of Ava.

"Well what the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Lay down your weapon? Come peacefully?"

And then he had to bark a laugh. "Lady, I have never come peacefully during ANY activity in my life. Why would I start now?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: (winces) ALSO: This is not exactly in chronological order. Still AU. I don't own anybody or anything. If I did, the chain of events would have come out quite differently.

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They had stopped asking why when she'd opened the door. Rachel Brooks was a threatening woman and he'd almost turned tail and run when he heard her coming down the hall - "What in FUCK'S name are you doing, son?"

And then her front door'd swung open and he shoved his freckled hands down in her pockets.

"Deeexter Price." She drawled it.

"You been practicin' that accent?"

She snorted. "Why are you….never mind." She turned sideways and allowed him through the door.

It was all crisp inside. Dark cherry finish and cream colored carpet and nothing at all that made him welcome. He stood frozen in the foyer hands still dug in his pockets.

She had padded into the kitchen, looking back over her shoulder. "Come on," she said.

"Maybe I should, uh…." She popped the fridge open, waved a Heineken bottle at him. When he still didn't move, she crossed the tile and offered it.

"This is a mistake," he remembered saying very clearly, but he guessed Rachel didn't year him because she pulled his hand out of his pocket and wrapped it around the beer. "Come on," she repeated.

His mouth was so dry it felt like sand paper. She took hold of his wrist and tugged, so he followed her into her kitchen. There was something boiling on the stove that smelled about like heaven (if chili could smell like heaven) and he loosened a notch. He smiled up at her from underneath his brow and then stared at his boot tops.

She chuckled, that sarcastic, musical sound he'd heard in the mine, and the notch threatened to tighten again. When he looked back up, she wasn't smiling any more than he was.

"This is hard." She said it a little low, so he leaned forward to hear better.

"They tell me alcohol blurs judgment some," he remarked, opening his beer.

And then she smiled, truly smiled. For the first time she was in enough light he could see it.

A good smile went a long way toward making her take the breath out of his lungs. He almost choked on his beer and she burst out laughing.

And then HE laughed. She dropped another hand in the fridge and fished out her own beer. "To blurred judgment," she said, and raised the bottle.

"Yup. Where can I put this coat?"

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They ended up on the couch watching WVU eat Clemson for supper. Boring enough game they could talk, but still enough noise and interest they didn't feel pushed. The chili was HOT—Rachel laughed when he dug in and then scrambled for his beer to put out the fire.

"I have family in Louisiana that would tell you that's mild," she said and he made some kind of comment about the difference between Kentucky and Louisiana taste buds. Clemson scored just then and he cheered for the underdog.

Eventually the chili bowls ended up on the floor and she had stretched her sock feet out onto the couch. He had whined about getting stuck in the corner and the wrestling that ensued was not serious on either part. His bottle started to tip and he dove onto the floor to catch it and stayed there, his back next to her right knee.

"'Nother beer?" he asked, rocking his head back against the couch cushion. She'd turned on her side and kinda peaked at him over top the arm she'd dropped down across her waist.

"Yes please."

He pushed up off his feet and fetched back two more. He was a long way from that blurry judgment they'd discussed, but the tension was out of his shoulders at least. The game was done by midnight, and neither one of them were sleepy. He thumped back down on the far cushion and Rachel hissed at him good naturedly.

He didn't know whether he wanted an excuse to touch her or not. Lord. If it were Cory Blevins or any other woman he'd already be all over her.

The TV still rattled. "What?" She cocked her head.

"I still don't…"

She did three things in unison at that point; rolled her eyes, rocked up on her knees, and kissed him across the mouth. She pulled back momentarily and they stared at each other. When she moved to kiss him again he met her halfway and hung a long arm around her waist, pulling her down, pulling her close, slowing her down.

They came up for air and he caught her wrist as she reached for his belt. She hissed at him, and it wasn't good natured this time.

"I need some kinda say in this, don't'cha think?" He chuckled at her.

Two can play at that game, and Miz Brooks made a point to. She pushed, he stalled. She pushed harder, he spun her head with a well placed touch and a whisper. And still, a half hour later, STILL they were on the couch. And their clothes were still on. This had not been why she'd called Dexter Price. This had not been what she was expecting at all. But the broad fingers tracing across the small of her back and the snug with which they fit against one another wasn't a bad second at all.

There was a reason. Of course there was a reason.

She reached for his belt again, and he flipped her. She tightened suddenly, made to fight him, and he slammed her wrists down on the arm of the couch.

"Dammit DON'T!"

Right about then the air chilled his bones and he sat up.

"Please don't." He pried the words loose from his voice box.

The furrow in her brow deepened, but she didn't get up from the couch. He would have-hell he most CERTAINLY would have.

"Dexter, what…"

He looked down at his freckled hands. "I don't…I don't know. It just seems too soon."

Rachel gritted her teeth and shoved off of the couch. "You don't get it, do you?"

"The time thing?"

"It's NEVER too soon. Because the only thing that's coming too soon is the end!"

Sometimes you couldn't tell when he was half-amused by something because his mouth was pulled too far across his jaws. But he was, and he looked up from under his brows at her again.

"See that's the beauty of it."

She was upright, like a pillar of fury and frustration. "Beauty of WHAT?"

He motioned between them. "Keepin' secrets. They'll buy us some time."

She shook her head at him, thumped back down on the far cushion. "You aren't supposed to be a philosopher."

"You ain't supposed to be into gents from the Aryan Brotherhood."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Can't let it go. Just can't do it. Smidgen of crossover into The Sentry.

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Stubborn man. She settled into his arms, face tilted into the curve or his neck. He let go of a half-sigh and shifted her closer.

"You've lost too much weight," he whispered, hand settled at the small of her back.

She let her breath whisper. "It's stress."

"Do tell."

"Why you think I called you, Dex?"

He slipped his right hand underneath her knee and hitched her leg higher onto his hip. A half decent afterglow, but both of them wanted the feel again. He shifted his hips up, sliding in slow.

"Shiii…oh God."

He chuckled. "You're welcome."

"Dammit, white boy," she whispered.

The back and forth, the talk, the banter. The casual, fitting movement. She ran her thumbs in circles in the hollow of his back and he shifted, flipping Rachel onto her back. She clenched down on his cock with a sudden fierceness.

He choked on her name, and she slammed her hips upward, literally smacking into him.

"You're welcome," she breathed. Slow, slow movement, incremental, enough to stop time, make her ache. He arched his back and pulled her upright with him, burying his face in her breasts, keeping her tight.

When they came to rest again it was almost daylight.

"Fucking hell," she said frankly.

"Fuckin' heaven, you mean," he drawled, watching her from under half-mast eyes.

"No, fucking _hell._ I have to work at seven."

He had this soundless kind of laugh that she hadn't heard anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and this half-pursed smirk that she wanted more than anything in the world to wipe off his face. He reached out and took her hand, laced her dark fingers with his brilliant white ones, and kissed the back of it.

"You glad you didn't make me wait all that long?"

"Yes ma'am." He laughed that soundless laugh again and they parted ways.

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He was halfway to Frankfort by the time Boyd called him, and she had been at work for three hours.

"You weren't home by curfew last night, Devil my friend."

"Sorry about that, Dad."

"You're going to Frankfort, I take it?"

"Yessir. You want me to pick up anything in particular or just keep doing what I'm doing?"

"Stay the course my friend. Stay the course."

"Will do."

"I'm out then. Mind yourself."

"Always."

Boyd hung up the phone. Devil wondered if he knew about Rachel.

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Tim knew she was getting laid. Rachel KNEW Tim knew she was getting laid because he was sitting across the bullpen smirking at her from behind the Swimsuit Issue of Sports Illustrated. Raylan knew she was happier. Art was suspicious. But Tim? Tim knew.

They went to lunch. "Well?" he asked.

"Well what?"

"Well is he a keeper?"

"No." She took a mouthful of rice and swallowed before she continued. "But he'll do." She leaned back in her chair and regarded the Ranger, a smile easing onto her face.

Tim left it at that, and she very pointedly said nothing about his upcoming trip to North Carolina.

They were all bending the rules to some degree or another.

She paused at that. Dear GOD Raylan was rubbing off on them ALL!


End file.
